Defying the Laws of Fiction
by Christine Eponine Watson
Summary: As many writers know, sometimes when we write, the characters sometimes are so life-like that we truly cannot control them or how the story unfolds. However, no character, no matter how life-like, has ever figured out that it is a story. That is, until now. If any character could figure it out, it would have to be Sherlock Holmes. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Yeah, I know that I'm writing a few too many stories at the moment, but I got this idea and it wouldn't leave me alone. ****_Sherlock _****wouldn't leave me alone. It's true, he can actually be rather annoying. **_Wrong._ **Sherlock, this is ****my**** author's note! You can't just go around hacking everything I write! **_Wrong again. Obviously I _can_ hack everything you write, since I am doing so presently._** I do not need your sass right now! Please, may I just begin the story?** _Not quite yet, you still need to write a disclaimer._** You are not my mother! **_I am well aware of that. First of all, I am not, nor have I ever been female. Second, I am British while you are American. Third... _**SHERLOCK! Just shut up for a minute would you?** _Fine._ **Thank you.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters.** _Obviously._** SHERLOCK! **_Sorry._** No, you're not.** _Amazing. You were actually correct for_ _once. _***Glares at Sherlock* As I was saying before an annoying Consulting Detective interrupted me, all rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whoever, if anyone, currently holds the copyright to Sherlock Homes, and the BBC.**

**There's one last thing I must say before we begin, parts of this story will be bold and in first person from my point of view with italicized writing being Sherlock, like in the A/N. Most of it will be the story and in third person. Now, ON WITH THE SHOW! **_It is a story, not a show._ ***facepalm* Sherlock...**

**Real last thing, I'm collaborating on this story with a good friend of mine, Samdroid, without whom, this would not be** **possible. He is writing as Sherlock, and I am writing as John.**

* * *

It was a rainy day in London. Such weather was unsurprising, at least to Sherlock Holmes. He was running down the street, his curly hair plastered to his head, collar up. He had thrown on at the last minute a grey oversized trench coat, but to no avail. He was soaked. One of the advantages, however, of a trench coat, is the utter unrecognizability of its wearer. No one payed attention to the Consulting Detective as he ran towards the scene of the city's latest mishap. A woman was dead. She lay close enough to his aging Baker Street apartment to render a cab useless. However, Holmes was never one to walk anywhere he could just as easily run.

He stopped suddenly as though he had forgotten something, then looked up to the dark clouds which had given London its own trench coat. He was deducing from them one of the city's many forgotten memories, or at least he appeared to be. In reality he was quite confused and didn't know why.

* * *

**I stopped writing. I had not intended for Sherlock to stop walking. I was very confused. It was as though Sherlock was controlling himself... Like he was alive... But, that's impossible... I returned my hands to the keyboard and continued typing.**

* * *

At last, Sherlock reached his destination. He gave Lestrade a quick nod as he walked past. The presence of Donovan and Anderson never even entered his consciousness. They were in a small, dingy alley, and the deceased was lying on the ground, her head and limbs twisted into grotesque, mangled shapes. Next to her lay half a pink umbrella. Crouching low on the ground near the corpse, Sherlock could observe much that the idiotic police would not. He shouted Lestrade's name into the empty space in front of him. He rarely felt the need to look at whom he was talking to.

"What is it?" inquired the older man.

"Lift her left hand," Sherlock instructed.

"Alright 'Olmes, I'll play your game, but I'm tellin' you- this time, we figured it out without your help." Sherlock looked carefully at her ring finger. It was broken. Sherlock nodded to himself.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

"No, _you_ figured it out first, didn't you. Lets hear what the great inspector has come up with this time," Sherlock sneered.

"Well, alright then. Her name's Elysa Rider. She attended a party last night at the Rose Noir, a club off Hempstead Road. We found the ticket in her pocket. Last night at that same club, there was a robbery and some of the women there were kidnapped. Without going into details, we found their bodies nearby. I talked to her husband and he said that he hadn't seen her since she left for the party. He was devastated. As was then obvious, she had been taken with the others and murdered by the same gang. I have a team out now apprehending the murderers."

"Well, if you ignore all of the obvious clues, then sure, that makes sense. Now here's where you're wrong. One, her umbrella. Who, when being kidnapped, stops to grab their umbrella. The answer is no one: she left willingly. Two, her finger. Not only is it broken, but it has a light band near where it meets the palm. She was married for some time then, and her ring was forcibly removed. Now you said her husband was devastated. Most people are very bad at faking sadness, especially devastation. Even you would have noticed that. But his story was false. Most married people don't go to nightclubs without their spouse, so he must have been busy. I would say that he was busy quite a lot, long enough for Elysa to bore of his tedious nights spent pounding leather into soles."

"Excuse me?" interjected Lestrade.

"Her boredom over-" Continued Holmes, unmoved.

"How did you know he was a cobbler?" Lestrade asked, interrupting the other man.

"I'll get to that later. As I was saying, her boredom overcame her, and she found a new lover, though she didn't care to divorce. Over time, Mr. Rider became suspicious. Last night he followed her to the club and when he saw her leave with another man he became furious. The lover fled at the sight of danger, after all he was only interested in Elysa for her looks, and her husband attacked her. In a fit of jealous rage, he ripped her wedding ring from her finger. He then proceeded to beat her to death with her umbrella. He didn't realize until after he had began to leave that he still had half of it clenched in his fist. You'll find that half in one of the nearby dumpsters," Sherlock informed the Detective Inspector.

"Brilliant, but... you left out the cobbler bit."

Sherlock sighed impatiently before continuing. "Her shoes are very old, yet, other than the wear of last night, they've not a blemish or a tear. Shoes like that are expensive to maintain, yet at the same time her dress is made of very cheap materials. The only way she could afford to wear shoes like that is if her husband repaired them himself. Therefore, he's a cobbler."

"You know Holmes, some of us back at the Yard think that you hire people to go around placing all these clues every time some crime is committed so that you can poke fun at us later. I want you to know that I disagree, for now."

Sherlock did not so much as nod in acknowledgement of Lestrade's accusation and instead left, returning to Baker Street.

* * *

He entered 221B and sat in his favorite chair. He held his fingers together underneath his chin and allowed his gaze to flicker to the empty chair across from his. _John should be home soon._ John Watson was Sherlock's flatmate and best friend. He had left to visit his alcoholic sister, Harry, in the hospital. She had been drinking and crashed her car into a tree. He was due home in twenty minutes.

Sherlock did not enjoy waiting, it was just so boring. He was thinking about shooting some more holes into the smiley face on the wall when he received a text.

_Almost home. Harry's fine, just a bit bruised. -JW_

Sherlock smiled and a warm feeling permeated him. He became confused. He had been feeling that strange warmth around his best friend more and more lately. He did not understand it at all. He began to analyze this odd emotion, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Very familiar footsteps. _John_.

Sherlock stayed seated. He noticed his heart rate increased as the door opened.

"Hello, Sherlock," John greeted his flat mate with a tired smile. Sherlock felt himself smile in reply. "Fancy some tea?"

"Yes, please." John looked at Sherlock bemusedly. Sherlock _never_ said please... The expression was not unnoticed by Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

* * *

A few moments later, although it felt much longer to Sherlock, the kettle whistled. He deduced that it would take John two minutes, give or take ten seconds, to return with the tea. Right on schedule, he heard John returning. Sherlock was startled to hear a loud crash coming from the direction of the kitchen followed by a very annoyed exclamation of "Bloody hell!"

Sherlock stood and turned to see what had happened. John was kneeling on the floor by a broken teapot. Sherlock opened his mouth to voice his displeasure in a loud manner, but all that came out was laughter. John looked up at him with a blush painting his cheeks. If anyone else had been laughing at his mistake, John would have been more than a little annoyed and would have said as much, but this was _Sherlock_. The man who normally behaved more like a machine than a human being with his perpetually serious nature. To say that John was surprised by his best mate's sudden burst of laughter would be an understatement. John was positively speechless. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, which made the other man laugh even more. After a few moments, John joined in.

Sherlock abruptly stopped laughing, yet his smile remained. "What are you laughing at, Watson?" He looked at the still laughing John suspiciously. "Did you put something in my coffee this morning?"

John's laughter died down as well. "What?"

"You heard me," Sherlock merely stated.

"Of course not!" John chuckled again. "Blimey, for a second there, Holmes, I thought you put something in _my_ coffee."

"Ah, Watson, but I did not put anything in your coffee, so either we are both being played for fools, or this bloody boredom has gotten to my nerves." Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "Watson, I need you to do a favor for me."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I need you to perform a test for the presence of hallucinogenics, sedatives, and just general narcotics. And, by the way, you can disregard any positive result for heroin."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Do as I instructed. Please." Sherlock had just said please twice in one day. Solely because of the peculiarity of said occurrence, John did as he was told. The tests came out negative for everything. Including heroin.

Sherlock still was not satisfied. Something was _different_ that day. "Maybe it's hypnosis," he muttered. "Watson, I need you to do one last thing for me."

"What is it now?" John practically sighed.

"I need you to stab me in the leg with that needle," Sherlock said.

"Is that really necessary?" John stammered, just barely hanging onto his composure.

"Well, you could just as easily tie a rope to my leg and throw me out the-" Sherlock was interrupted by a needle being stabbed into his leg. Aside from the pain, he felt no different. "OW... Watson... I am still smiling, WHY AM I SMILING?" he demanded. "I must not be hypnotized. If I have been neither drugged nor hypnotized, and I'm _obviously_ not dreaming, then what is wrong with me?"_  
_

Sherlock pondered the question. When John began to bandage his leg, the feeling of John's hands on his leg sent a peculiar tingling sensation through him, confusing the situation even more and distracting him from his thoughts.

"Stop it, I can't think while you're touching me!" Sherlock complained while attempting to remove the offending hands from his leg.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sherlock, but I don't want you to bleed out on our living room floor!" John countered. He continued bandaging despite Sherlock's protests.

"John, uh, _John_, I really don't think this is necessary," Sherlock maintained. "You _did_ sterilize that needle though, didn't you?" He began to look a bit concerned. John almost wanted to slap him for being so difficult. John had noticed that Sherlock was acting increasingly more obnoxious lately. It confused him almost as much as his own apparently growing inability to keep his eyes off of the man.

"Of course I did, I'm a bloody doctor!" John growled, his reverie lasting less than a minute. "Just because _you_ don't care about your health and physical well being does _not_ in _any_ way mean that I can't." John only barely stopped himself from wincing. Had he really just said that out loud?

Sherlock, as always, noticed John's near-wince. He decided to file it away in his Mind Palace to analyze later. "Fine, fine, thank you; this is just all so bloody unnecessary," he complained, sounding a tad bit like a spoiled child who had bored of his new toy. "I need something to do, a game to fight."

John sighed and began packing up his medical equipment. "Was your most recent case not to your liking than, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scoffed. "It was hardly a case. The only mystery is how Lestrade is still alive."

John was flummoxed. "What the devil are you going on about?" he inquired.

"No, I mean the only real mystery I've come across in months is how Lestrade's genes haven't been eliminated yet," Sherlock quipped.

After having lived with Sherlock for an extended period of time, his attitude towards Lestrade should no longer surprise John in the least, but it still somehow managed to. "I can't express how glad I am that he was not here to hear you say that," John announced. "He's honestly not that bad a bloke, Sherlock."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I could care less about how he is as a 'bloke,' he's the most annoyingly perpetrating threat to the safety of London."

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, knowing it was a lost cause to argue any more. "It's getting late, fancy some supper?"

Sherlock was surprised. "You-you don't have one of those things you do... with women?" he inquired, curiosity, shock, and slight disdain evident in his tone.

"You mean a date?" John smirked.

"Sure, call it what you wish. You don't have one?" Sherlock tried to suppress the hopefulness in his voice. Luckily for him, John was not as observant as he.

"Not tonight, no," John replied.

"Okay then. I'll get my supply of antidotes."

John was taken aback. "Antidotes? Whatever for?"

"Your, well, what you call cooking," Sherlock answered bluntly.

John was hurt. He buried that hurt beneath sarcasm. "Like you could do any better."

"I could, I just don't practice. It's a waste of time." John decided that at a later date he would get Sherlock to prove his so-called expertise. _That_ would be interesting. Besides, Holmes was wrong about John's cooking. The only time Sherlock had ever even tasted his cooking was when the dinner he was preparing had burned because they had been called away urgently to a crime scene.

"In favor of avoiding yet another argument, how about we go out for supper?" John suggested. Sherlock nodded in agreement, his mind secretly wondering if it would be anything like one of John's countless "dates".

John offered a hand to assist Sherlock to his feet, which the latter accepted after a moment's hesitation. The moment their hands touched, both men felt a bolt of electricity, which they both deliberately ignored. John was astounded by just how lightweight Sherlock was. _I will have to force him to eat more often, _he decided. As Sherlock dusted himself off, he felt a peculiar weight in his pocket which was most decidedly _not_ there a few seconds previously. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube of lipstick. When he saw it, he froze, filled with astonishment and apprehension. There was also a note with it that had his name written on it in what appeared to be a very convincing forgery of his own handwriting. He left the note in his pocket to deal with later, but every now and then when John was not looking, he snuck a peak at it.

"Watson, you didn't let anyone into the flat, did you?" he asked cautiosly.

John's eyebrows knit together. "No, of course not," he responded. "Why?"

"And you weren't bribed on in other ways induced into saying that by a rather dangerous looking woman?" Sherlock questioned in the same cool manner.

John felt offended. "Do you _actually_think that _I_ would accept a bribe to lie to you?" he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. "She can be very convincing," Sherlock remarked. Hearing how little Sherlock trusted him damn near broke his heart in two, but this time even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't read it on his face.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are my best mate, I would _not_ lie to you!" John seethed, even though deep down he knew that was a lie. There were some truths, well one really, that he was not ready to acknowledge himself, let alone share.

"Alright, you can stop talking now. If you were lying, I would have figured out by now." John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, "There are some situations, John, were you may think you're protecting me by not saying something. Perhaps someone has a gun to either of our heads. You know what, forget that; just, be careful of anyone who looks like they actually know what there doing."

John turned away from Sherlock under the pretext of putting away his medical equipment. In all actuality, he had turned so that Sherlock would not see his panic at the thought of someone threatening his Consulting Detective. _His _Consulting Detective? John shook away those thoughts. _I'm not gay,_ he reminded himself.

"Miss Adler must have gotten much more creative," Sherlock noted. At the sound of Irene's name, John immediately tensed and his retreat halted. This, Sherlock did notice. He filed it away in his mind palace for examination when he had time. At that moment, there were more pressing matters at hand. Speaking of which, "Have you seen my hydraulics kit?" Sherlock asked the still frozen form of John Watson.

John finally moved to face his flatmate again with no trace of the single tear lingering on his face. "In the cupboard," John answered, sending a silent thanks to whatever higher power kept his voice steady. "Why?"

"God, must I explain every little detail?" Sherlock exclaimed with more than a hint of annoyance, running a hand through his chocolate curls, which John would have found attractive, had he not just been insulted. Wait, did John just unintentionally mentally call Sherlock attractive? The truth he did not want to face came very close to surfacing in that split second of surprise, but he suppressed it. "I can't very well just open this without welcoming the very real possibility of our own deaths."

John was confused, both by the possible threat of imminent demise coming from what looked strikingly similar to a tube of lipstick and by the cold panic that once again accompanied the thought of Sherlock being in danger. "But... that's just a tube of lipstick," John observed, still befuddled. "How could it be that dangerous?"

Sherlock looked as though he was speaking to an idiot. "Irene Adler, and anything to do with her, is extremely dangerous. That's all you need to know for now," he explained curtly, bored with having to explain so very many things when he really wanted to make sure that they were not going to meet an untimely death.

John held up his hands in a motion that could only mean 'stop right there'. "Hang on a minute. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, couldn't you just deduce whether or not it's dangerous without exposing us to certain death?" he wondered.

Sherlock sighed. "Well, how else am I supposed to figure out if it's hers? If I knew the color _maybe_ I could figure out-" Sherlock's rant was interrupted by John.

"You do know that there's a little circle thing on the bottom of lipstick tubes that shows or says what the color is, right?" he asked gently, trying not to offend his flatmate _too_ much.

It worked. Sherlock was not offended. He was, however, embarrassed. He tried to suppress a blush, but his cheeks turned very slightly pink. John actually found it rather endearing, which he refused to acknowledge. "Oh... Why would I know that?" Sherlock growled.

"I suppose _you_ wouldn't..." John smirked, his voice containing a small measure of laughter at his friend's expense.

Sherlock's jaw ground together a minutely small amount as he examined the bottom of the tube. The color was far too light. "Well, now that you mention it, this is all wrong. Light pink?" he scoffed. "No, no, no, Irene would use only the _deepest_ of reds."

"Spent much time admiring her lips, have we, Sherlock?" John teased, a corner of his mind praying that Sherlock would deny it sincerely. Once again, John pushed such _ridiculous_ thoughts from his mind. Those thoughts _were_ ridiculous, weren't they? Thankfully, none of his internal dialogue played on his face.

Sherlock, being so very _Sherlock_, did not understand that it was _not_ truly a question, but open mockery. He did, however, through the jumbled, confusing mess that was his emotions figure out that John thinking he was _admiring_ Irene's lips was quite a bit not good. "Not admiring, no. Just noticing. That's what I do, I'm a detective, I detect. _I'm just doing my_ _job!_"

Although he refused to acknowledge it and instead focused on changing the subject, John was actually relieve that Sherlock did not spend his time gawking at Irene's mouth. It made him wonder if he spent time gawking at her other _commodities_... John refused to linger on _that_ thought. He actually remembered that there was something he had wanted to say. "So, if it's not Irene's, _how the hell did it get in your trouser pocket_?" he demanded, visibly wincing at how possessive and jealous that sounded. _I am NOT gay!_ he told himself yet again. Really, he had needed to remind himself of that far too many times recently for his liking. He blamed his absolutely gorgeous flatmate. _Even straight men can find their friends good looking, can't they?_ he wondered silently. The voice of the man who had been causing his emotional turmoil brought him back to reality.

"That's a question for later, John," Holmes said, secretly pleased at how possessive and jealous John had sounded. "I think I know a wonderful place to eat." He had changed the subject for one reason, he had realized that the handwriting on the note had in fact not been a forgery. It truly was his handwriting. As the pair put on jackets, or trench coats in Sherlock's case, and left their flat, Sherlock was smiling. He was excited to have such a fascinating new mystery on his hands. He could not wait to read the contents of the note, but for the time being, he was going to dinner with his John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I forgot to mention last chapter, but reviews would mean so much to us! PLEASE REVIEW! **_Alright, the story is slow and I'm not supposed to have emotions._** NOT YOU, SHERLOCK! I meant the lovely people reading this. Plus it's not ****_exactly_**** my fault that you have emotions. I have one word for you: JOHN!** _John's not the one writing this. What makes you think you have the right to mess with the emotions of such a... damn you. _**HA! Told you so! **_Detectives can't work like this. You're making a mistake. _**Tell that to ****_John._**_ You know I need an assistant. _**I also know that you want ****_more_**** than just an assistant. If you didn't want to be picked on, you shouldn't have hacked the story in the first place. **_Oh no, I'm not letting you make all the choices. This story would be too boring without my help. Its already bad enough with all your useless sentimentality._ ***cough* John. *cough* Shut up. You know you secretly like it. Anyways, I think this Author's Note is long enough, don't you? **_Quite._

**(Also, just so you know, if John is not exactly like in the show, it's intentional. This is my version of John. Thank god Sherlock did not comment on this.)**

**Last thing, I created a page on facebook about all of my fanfiction. You should check it out! www . facebook dot co m/ ChristineEponine (remove the spaces and dot is just a .)  
**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

* * *

"Uh, Sherlock, are you sure we're in the right place?" John asked his tall companion uncertainly. They were standing in one of London's less than savory alleys. He was eyeing the garbage all around him while hoping that the great Sherlock Holmes had made a mistake, yet all the while he knew that such an occurrence was highly unlikely.

"Certainly," Sherlock replied, destroying any lingering hope John may have had, "the door's right there." He pointed to what appeared to be the back entrance of a car park rather than a restaurant.

John eyed the door suspiciously before asking one last time, "Are you quite certain?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Always," he stated bluntly. "Now, let's eat." As the Consulting Detective strode confidently towards the worn out door, he pulled a glove from his pocket, which he used to open the door without sullying his hands unnecessarily. His companion followed him without another word.

Once the pair stepped inside, John stopped in his tracks and took in his surroundings. The restaurant would have actually been nice, had it not been in a state near structural collapse. There was dim, nearly romantic, lighting, stained and moth-eaten tablecloths, cracked glasses, wilting flowers, and broken furniture. Despite all this, the place was lively. Granted, the patrons were less than trustworthy and probably at least half of them were being hunted by the police. There was a man playing a guitar on a slightly raised platform in one corner of the room. "Well... this is... _slightly_ nicer than I expected..." he observed, giving the building the highest praise he could manage.

"Good," Sherlock responded, leading his friend to a table opposite the guitar player. Once they reached the table, Sherlock pulled out a chair for John, a leg of which promptly fell off. This elicited a chuckle from John and an eye roll from Sherlock, who then swapped the chair with one from a different table and held it out for the other man with a simple utterance of, "Have a seat."

"Th-thank you," John said, internally cursing his stutter and the blush that came along with it. _Still not gay,_ he reminded himself. When he looked up and saw his companion's raised eyebrow, he realized that he had actually said it out loud that time. His blush deepened to the sort of color Ms. Adler would gladly wear as lipstick and he couldn't meet Sherlock's gaze, though the other man's smirk was almost tangible.

Just when John was convinced the date... _Wait, stop right there, this isn't a date, John. Get it through your thick skull that you are _not_ gay! _Just as John thought that the thing which was most decidedly _not_ a date could not get any more awkward, the waiter arrived.

The waiter was a tall man in his early thirties with caramel colored eyes, long, greasy blonde hair held back in a ponytail, and dark stubble coating his jaw. What bothered John about the man the most was the way he was looking at Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock! It is not really necessary to mention the rather obvious thing that went through his mind after that thought, _again_.

"Evenin' gov'ner," the afore mentioned waiter began with the most vulgar of all cockney accents, which was enough to make both men wince. He was looking only at Sherlock as though John did not even exist, and causing the latter to grind his teeth together. "The name's Paul. What can I get you two _fine_ gentlemen?" The way he said 'fine' was so overly emphasized it was blatantly sarcastic. At the end of his speech, Paul winked at Sherlock, attempting to be as seductive as possible.

"I'll just have the soup," Sherlock announced with his arms folded on the table. Much to Paul's disappointment, he was not taking, or understanding, the bait. Instead he was observing the guitarist. The idiotic waiter was still staring at Sherlock, willing him to look at him and ignoring John completely.

John cleared his throat, finally getting the waiter to acknowledge his presence. "I'll have what he's having," he growled through clenched teeth. Paul nodded and turned back to Sherlock who was still staring intently at the guitarist.

"No more 'an soup?" the waiter, who apparently did not know when to give up, asked to his current fixation. "You look hungry." John could take no more.

"You took our orders, now _go do your blooming job_!" he barked.

"Fine then," the man huffed at him. His voice became sweeter as he turned back to Sherlock. "And good evening once again to you sir." with that, he left to fill out their orders. Once he was gone, Sherlock's eyes left the guitarist and flickered over to the man seated opposite him, who was still fuming.

"What are you so upset about, John?" he asked, tilting his head to one side in a very confused and curious manner. "The food's free; the manager owes me a favor."

"That waiter was being very rude, or did you not see the looks he was giving you?" John responded, still with clenched teeth. Sherlock did not know why the waiter's behavior to him was upsetting his friend so much, but for some mysterious reason, he rather liked that it was.

"No, John, I was watching that man over there, playing the guitar," he explained.

"Why in the bloody hell were you going that?" John snapped, but instantly regretted it. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. Why were you watching the guitar player?"

Sherlock got an expression on his face that is typically only seen on five-year-olds in candy stores, but Sherlock gets every time he gets to explain something to John. Every time he tries to hide it, but he never can. At least, not from John. "Because I've heard this song before, and every once in a while he hits a wrong note, but with certainty. He's playing it wrong for a reason," he explained in one breath.

John looked at the guitarist curiously. "Why?"

Sherlock's expression gained annoyance, yet didn't lose the glee, and he rolled his eyes. "Well, either he wrote his own awkward variation, or he's communicating something."

"Like what?" John inquired, his curiosity growing by the minute.

"I don't know yet, but every time he hits a wrong note it's either a semitone flat or semitone sharp," Sherlock sighed in exasperation. Whether it was directed at his friend or his own lack of knowledge was unclear even to him.

John looked at him blankly. "What does that mean?" he asked, perplexed. He had no idea what on earth a semitone whatever was. Sherlock did not take his friend's lack of musical knowledge into account.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed even brighter. "You're a soldier, you tell me," he prompted. If there was one thing Sherlock enjoyed more than displaying his vast and dizzying intellect it was... No, nothing, but teaching his best mate how to deduce was a close second.

John thought for a bit as he looked around the room. "That bloke with the blue fedora is staring at him too intently," he observed, motioning with his head to a man seated at the bar. "Either he's the one the message is for, or he's gay."

"He's gay," Sherlock quickly explained. "The real recipient wouldn't dare look at the correspondent. Why do you think they're using music?" He leaned closer as though that would impart some of his deductive skills upon the other man.

John scanned the restaurant again, ignoring Sherlock's proximity and his own raised heart rate. The two things had nothing to do with each other... Nothing at all... Right? "Then it's the woman in the too-tight suit. She hasn't looked at him all night," he decided when he had gotten himself under control. Sherlock felt his jaw tense slightly when he heard that John had been watching her _all night_. He filed that thought away in his mind palace in the room called 'confusing John-related thoughts'.

"Good, John, you're learning," Sherlock noted with a small amount of pride apparent in his voice. He leaned even closer to John. "But tell me now, how does one encode a message given only two possible signals?"

John thought for a moment, then suddenly, it clicked. "Morse Code?"

Sherlock beamed at him. "I've written the message so far," he told John while sliding his napkin over to him. "Well, John, what do you think?" John looked at the writing on the napkin. It read, 'Colonel arrives tomorrow. Prepare cover."

John glanced at Sherlock's expectant face. "Who's this colonel chap?" he questioned the detective, whose eyebrows knitted together in response.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he sighed deeply and pouted, obviously hating not knowing something. Sherlock behaved so much like a spoiled child sometimes, it was almost unbelievable. It always made John smirk. Sherlock noticed the smirk. It only made him pout more, crossing his long, pale arms in front of his chest. John had to fight very hard not to burst out laughing and upset his companion even more. John's struggle was ended when the overly flirtatious waiter returned with their food, wiping his smirk away completely.

"Here's your soup, folks," Paul announced to 'both of them,' meaning Sherlock, as he set the bowls on the table. "I added a little somethin' special for you," he added with a wink as he set one of the bowls in front of Sherlock. John scowled and Sherlock released an exasperated sigh while scanning the waiter with his eyes. John saw the look on Sherlock's face and immediately his scowl turned into a smirk. He knew what was coming. There was one thing Sherlock did that _always_ scared people off. Except for John, that is.

Sherlock opened his perfectly shaped mouth and, with a perfectly calm expression, told Paul, "Look, I understand that you're desperate for a nice guy's companionship after your messy breakup with Eric, but you'd really have better luck with that man over there in the blue fedora." The poor twit's jaw dropped so that it almost touched the floor, figuratively speaking.

"How did you-" he began, but was interrupted by Watson.

"Don't ask. You'll never understand." When the man did not take the hint to leave and was still standing like a statue in disbelief, John continued. "Shouldn't you be flirting with someone else now?" The question made Sherlock's lips curl into a crooked grin, which incidentally made John's heart rate increase, and finally shook Paul out of his dumbfounded stupor. Once he had regained composure, the waiter glared at the two men and stormed off in a huff, presumably in the direction of fedora-guy. A few moments of silence accompanied his departure, but were broken by John.

"That was bloody brilliant," he praised the man seated opposite him. Sherlock shrugged and tried in vain to hide that his grin grew. "How did you know?"

Again Sherlock looked like a child on Christmas morning. "First, His key chain dangles visibly from his belt, and on it is a name tag. This name tag, however, says 'Eric,' so we know that he lives, or in this case recently lived, with another man. Secondly, he's clearly very drunk, which suggests that he recently experienced an emotional trauma. He could have just been at a party, but that's unlikely given his age. Third, he has been awkwardly staring out the window for as long as I observed him. Outside is nothing more than an alley, so he must be awaiting the unwanted arrival of some person. Fourth, he was patted on the back by an appreciative patron when he was serving another table, And nearly fell over. He walks and moves himself perfectly naturally, so this could not have been due to a sensitive back. Therefore, his reaction was due to a skin deep, but painful, injury. It suffices from here on to say that Eric was abusive, and that he may be coming back for his set of keys," he explained.

John smiled brilliantly, causing Sherlock's breath to catch. "You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock," he praised, his voice full of awe. Sherlock could not help but return the smile.

"You've been amazing a few times yourself," Sherlock replied, still smiling. John's face turned a deep scarlet and he stared into the depths of his soup.

"Th-thanks," he stuttered. There was a mildly uncomfortable silence while both men pondered their soups. Comfort diminished further as time passed, until a loud crack drew both men's attention from the other.

"Alright, who's bloody idea was it to set this table with a broken chair?!" yelled a flabbergasted and rather overweight patron lying atop a, well, what _was_ a three-legged chair. Laughter filled the room, and nearly permeated Sherlock's mental barriers before John called their return to silence.

"Best not mention anything, Sherlock. People don't appreciate finding out you're the one who dropped them on their arses." Awkwardness once again crept between the two men. Oddly enough, Sherlock was the one to break their reveries.

"How's the soup then?" Sherlock inquired of his uncharacteristically quiet companion.

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's face, then returned this soup. "It's nice... Nice soup..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared at John curiously. "Not really, but it's better than anything we could have done." This assertion was enough to end the other man's embarrassment. He looked Sherlock in the eyes defiantly.

"You can_not_ judge my cooking," he said defensively. "The only time you have ever tasted something I cooked was after it had burned due to us running out on a case _at your insistence._"

Sherlock stood up. "Let's go then, I have some work to do. Impress me." A small grin broke out on John's face.

"As you wish," he replied, following the dark haired detective who, after waving to a man in the kitchen, was already halfway out the door. By the time John actually caught up with Sherlock, he had already hailed a cab and was stepping inside with a swish of his trench coat. John followed him and after what felt like no time at all, they had arrived back at the flat. Upon entering, Sherlock sat upon his chair, trying to figure out the meaning of the message, while John retreated to the kitchen.

"So, what would you like for supper?" John inquired while standing on his toes to get a better look at the measly food stuffs they still had. They really needed more groceries. And soon.

"I don't know, use whatever's in the kitchen," Sherlock answered without moving a centimeter.

John sighed and shook his head, looking at his friend. "For such a creative genius, you really are unoriginal when it comes to food."

Sherlock's eyes traveled to the blonde. "Why would I waste creative energy thinking about food? It's just a way to keep from dying," Sherlock announced while opening John's laptop which was sitting on the coffee table.

John decided it would be better to just ignore the comment and that Sherlock was using his laptop without asking first. He began skimming through some cookbooks until he found a recipe that only required ingredients they currently had available. "How about chicken?" he asked. Sherlock ignored him and began plucking at the strings on his violin. "I'll take that as a yes." John looked at the recipe he had selected. It was fairly simple, but looked good. He gathered the ingredients and began to cook.

"The first question is whether it's a code name..." Sherlock mumbled to himself while pacing the length of the room. John ignored him, something which had strangely become increasingly difficult for him, and continued cooking. A mouth-watering aroma began to fill the flat. "And why music? Surely they could have just passed a piece of paper... no, one of them must have been under surveillance..." Sherlock muttered, brows furrowing. A timer went off in the kitchen and John opened the oven. This time, the food was not burnt.

"Sherlock, food's ready," John called into the living room. "Would you please clear the table?"

"Some of that stuff has to stay there," Sherlock called back.

John shook his head in exasperation. "Well, at least make room."

Sherlock grudgingly walked over to the table. He picked up a large rack of test tubes and a preserved rat and placed them on top of a large box of nicotine patches. "There," he announced.

"Thank you," John said, smiling as he put the food on the table. His smile made it impossible for Sherlock to retain an ill humor. "Bon appetite."

"You never told me you speak French," Sherlock remarked. John shrugged.

"You're Sherlock Holmes. I assumed you knew."

"I can't observe everything anyone does. I have to analyze only information that's relevant in order to maximize the efficiency of my brain," Sherlock explained.

"Since when have _I _been 'anyone'?" he demanded with a look of mock hurt.

"No, you're John, I know. You're better than most people," Sherlock confessed, "but still, I ignore everyone when I'm thinking about a problem, which is a great deal of the time."

John was shocked. "Wait, did you just give me a _compliment_?" he asked, too surprised to blush at what Sherlock had said.

"I don't give compliments," Sherlock insisted. "I was acknowledging a fact."

"It was still very flattering," he insisted, grinning. He then turned serious as his smile faded. "I didn't think you cared about my existence other than as a replacement for the skull on the mantle."

"Care perhaps is not the best word," Sherlock admitted, "but you are useful."

John's grin disappeared entirely and he looked disappointed. "And the touching moment vanished just like that," he muttered. "For a second I almost thought you were human." For reasons unknown to him, Sherlock wished he could take back what he had said.

"John, I didn't mean that entirely," he claimed quickly, "but you must understand it's important that I keep a professional distance from everyone. Closer ties are the causes of mistakes." The look on John's face morphed from disappointment to compassion and... something else. Sherlock could not quite tell what.

John then did something that surprised them both. Maintaining eye contact, he reached over the table and placed his hand on Sherlock's forearm. "You know you don't need to keep everyone at arms' length to remain a genius," he murmured. Sherlock found he could not look away from the other man's eyes. Or form coherent sentences.

"You're right," Sherlock replied when he found his tongue, "a dead genius is still a genius." Sighing, John removed his hand and broke eye contact. The spot where his hand had been tingled strangely.

"I see that we'll never agree on this," John sighed. He looked down at the table and noticed that neither of them had touched their food. "You should eat, you're far too thin." Sherlock studied his face. John refused to look at him as he began eating.

"I keep enough weight and muscle mass to function," Sherlock asserted. John looked up from his plate and met Sherlock's gaze with a look of determination.

"I worked hard on this meal, you bloody well are going to eat it."

"I never said I wasn't going to eat it," Sherlock assured him, "but I protest being labeled as 'too thin.'" John looked satisfied and returned his focus to his food. Sherlock followed suit with much less enthusiasm. The rest of the meal passed in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: ****I would like to start off this chapter by thanking the three wonderful people who reviewed this story: nala87, GarnetAles, and lovelovelove333. You guys are awesome!** _I think they overrated the story, however this Colonel character may prove to save it. _******Sherlock... Please... Just, play nice for once in your life!** _Why? There's no point in being nice at the cost of honesty. _**There _is _a point to being nice, or would you prefer to have someone else explain all this to you? Someone more... _John _shaped? **_I'm not nice to John at the cost of his own good, but really, to thank people for an underdeveloped taste in literature helps no one. _******You may not be "nice to John at the cost of his own good," but you _obviously _prefer him to me. Also, _please_ try to not insult the nice people? I would really like them to continue to read the story.** _I'm sure they will, just make sure that this new mystery develops satisfactorily. _******The mystery is probably not the only reason they're reading this story.** _It's the only reason I'm not deleting it. _******Oh? The _only_ reason? Then I guess you won't mind if I remove John from the story...** _Your readers wouldn't be very happy about that, now would they? _******No, they wouldn't, but why do _you_ care what they think? I thought that they had an "underdeveloped taste in literature."** _They do, but you don't seem to think so. _******You did not answer my question, Sherlock.** _No, but I did demonstrate how the answer is insignificant to our discussion. You can't remove John from the story because then no one would read it. _**You are so impossible. **

**Sherlock doesn't know about this part, so I'll be brief before he catches on. I would like to remind you all that my wonderful friend, Samdroid, is writing as Sherlock. Remember that.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. There will be OCs in this chapter, though. **

* * *

After supper, both Sherlock and John retreated to their separate bedrooms in silence. John was exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Sherlock did not even try to sleep. He sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands steepled beneath his chin. He entered his Mind Palace and went straight to the room of 'confusing John-related thoughts' and began to analyze everything. He sifted through everything he had felt, all of the warm feelings, electric currents, tingling sensations, smiles, apologies, and thoughts. Every time he thought he had finally figured out what it all meant, a new piece of data would appear and leave him confused once more. He had never been so confused in his life. He was _Sherlock Holmes_, he was _never_ confused, especially by a mere mortal like John Watson. He sat completely still for hours, his body becoming more and more tense with each passing second, until he could no longer bear it. With a sigh of frustration, he left his Mind Palace. He stretched out each of his limbs individually the way a cat does after a long nap. Once completely stretched, he stood and began pacing his room, running his hand through his dark curls as he went. He ran through all possible courses of action.

One, he could decide to shove everything aside and attempt to go back to the way things had been the day before, but that did not seem possible since John was becoming so _distracting_.

Two, he could try to figure it all out on his own as he had been doing, but that had not been working so far.

Three, he could ask for help. Of all of the options, that one seemed to be the most likely to show results, but who?Who could Sherlock trust with his most private thoughts? Who could understand him enough to know what they meant? His first thought was John, but he shoved that aside. That definitely did not seem like a good idea since the man was the one causing all of this trouble in the first place. Mycroft? He scoffed at the idea. _That_ would never happen. He went through all of the people he knew well and interacted with most often, but no one seemed good enough. All at once, an image popped into his rather impressive mind. A professor he had in school when he was seventeen years old in a class of boys two years his senior, Dr. James Whittson had been the only teacher who did not hate him for correcting him in class. He had been the person Sherlock had gone to whenever the other students had been particularly cruel. Sherlock had trusted him as he had never trusted anyone in his life.

Sherlock snatched up his mobile from his bedside table and typed in the number he had never forgotten. After the first ring, a groggy voice answered.

"Hello?" the well-remembered voice mumbled through a yawn. Sherlock had forgotten that normal people were not awake at three in the morning as he was. "Who's calling?"

"An old student," Sherlock answered, the corners of his lips turning upwards slightly at the voice of his friend and mentor.

There was a short pause accompanied by what sounded like someone sitting up in bed. "Sherlock, is that you?" the voice inquired, sounding much more awake this time.

Sherlock's smile grew. He was glad to hear that he had made as much of an impression on his ex-professor as the older man had made on him. "Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "and I have some questions only you can answer."

"Certainly, my boy," Dr. Whittson agreed immediately. "What is it you would like to know?"

Sherlock let out a sigh, trying to decide where to begin. Starting at the beginning seemed like the most logical choice. "I have a flatmate named John..." he began, but was abruptly interrupted by the man on the other end of the call.

"Wait, how long will this take exactly?" Dr. Whittson asked, a yawn coloring his words.

Sherlock calculated for a quarter of a second. "Judging by our previous conversations, about two hours."

"Sherlock, it's three in the morning. How about we talk over a cup of tea in the morning?" the professor suggested. Sherlock did not quite grasp the entirety of what he had implied.

"Okay, I'll be over in twenty five minutes," Sherlock informed him, beginning to stand.

"I meant _later _in the morning, my boy," the professor explained gently.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right," he mumbled. He thought for a moment what an appropriate time would be for someone who actually sleeps. "Eight then?"

As a sigh came through the mobile, Sherlock could clearly picture Dr. Whittson shaking his head with a smile on his face as he had done many times while Sherlock was in school and said something only he would find logical. "Some things never change," Dr. Whittson muttered with fondness. "How about ten?"

"Ten it is," Sherlock concurred and hung up the phone, disregarding the typical human ritual of a farewell before ending communications. Sherlock ran a hand through his already tangled hair and pondered what to do for seven hours since he never slept. One of his hands found its way into his pocket and retrieved the note he had entirely forgotten about. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sherlock unfolded the note and began to read.

"Your name is Sherlock because your mum hoped after Mycroft that she was going to have a girl and decided on Shirley. Sherlock was the closest acceptable equivalent. This note is obviously not written by Mycroft. Now that we've made ourselves clear, it is imperative that the lipstick in your pocket stays there until exactly-" Sherlock finished reading the note free from further narration.

* * *

**"WHAT THE HELL! I did NOT write that! How the hell did _ANY_ of it get in my story?" I screamed at my computer. This whole mess was becoming way too weird. Like it wasn't strange enough for a tube of lipstick to appear in Sherlock's pocket without my writing it, there had to be a note, a note that _I__, _the _author_, couldn't read? The story was writing itself. "I've heard of stories being so well-written that they come alive, but I never thought it was meant _literally_!" I decided that was enough weirdness for one day. I closed my laptop and grabbed my purse. Standing up from my desk chair, I reached into the purse to grab my cell phone with the intention of calling my boyfriend, Tod. I needed a distraction.**

**After a brief conversation, we agreed to meet at our favorite restaurant.**

**I opened the pocket in which I kept my lipstick. It wasn't there. "What the hell?" I murmured, searching the rest of the purse. Still no sign of it. My eyes darted to the computer. "No way. That is _not_ possible!" But, it _was_ the right shade... "No, Christine, there is no way your lipstick got in the story. It's just inconceivable!"  
**

**Some weird intuition pushed me back to the laptop. I opened it with shaking hands. Somehow I just knew that the answers I sought could only be found if I kept writing.**

* * *

Sherlock pocketed the note. He would put his plan in motion before his visit with Dr. Whittson. John would be awake at about seven. That was as good a time as any. A small smile appeared on his face as he leaned back on the bed with his hands behind his head. _This should be fun._

* * *

Sherlock was awakened by the sounds of John preparing breakfast. He did not remember falling asleep, but a glance at the clock said it was two minutes past seven. _Right on schedule._ He stood and walked into the kitchen. John was fully absorbed in preparing eggs and therefore did not notice Sherlock enter the room.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock greeted, making John jump slightly at the unanticipated sound of his voice. "I found out whose lipstick was in my pocket."

John turned to face him holding two steaming plates of Eggs Benedict. "Oh? Who?" he asked with casual interest as he set the plates on the table and motioned for Sherlock to take a seat. Sherlock sat as directed, but did not make any move to eat the food before him.

"A woman I met at the crime scene yesterday," he lied convincingly with nonchalance. "Her name is Christine. She may come around to retrieve it, please do let her in."

* * *

**My heart nearly stopped when I saw my name. "This is just not normal," I muttered, staring at the screen as though it was going to come alive and bite me. I kept writing, curiosity, quite likely in addition to insanity, driving me forward.**

* * *

"A woman?" John repeated with surprise and a bit of accusation in his tone. "_You_ met a woman and ended up with her lipstick in your trouser pocket?"

"She dropped it, I meant to give it back," Sherlock claimed with a shrug as though it were perfectly natural for him to be considerate of others. John was not so easily convinced.

"Really?" he demanded, disbelief and suspicion evident in the one word.

"Yes, but," Sherlock began, intending to explain to John the confusion that had overtaken him the day before, but thought better of it. "Well, I can't be expected to keep track of everything."

John raised an eyebrow at him, then sighed and broke eye contact in a sign of surrender. "I suppose..." he conceded. He began to pick at his breakfast slowly, without conviction. Suddenly, he looked up, confusion in his blue-eyed gaze. "Hang on, why do you need me to let her in?"

Sherlock appeared to be conflicted for a split second before answering. "I'm afraid I can't answer that at the moment," he answered with conviction.

John was confused. It did not seem like it could be important enough to be the sort of thing Sherlock would keep hidden from him. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he persisted. Sherlock shook his head, indicating that he would not be swayed in his decision. John switched questions. "Why can't you let her in?"

Sherlock looked somewhat relieved at the slight change of topic. "Because I'm going to visit Dr. Whittson," he clarified. John looked even more puzzled.

"Who?" he asked uncertainly.

"Dr. Whittson," Sherlock repeated. John merely looked at him as though he had grown an extra head.

"Um, Sherlock... We live together... You don't have to leave to visit me..." John said slowly as though he were explaining quantum mechanics to a small child.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, also feeling as if he were conversing with a toddler. "I know that, John. There's no point in stating the obvious," he insisted.

"Yes, but you said that you were going to visit Dr. Watson. I'm right here," John explained.

"Ah... Actually I said _Whitt_son," Sherlock corrected. "He's an old professor of mine."

"Oh. That makes so much more sense," John admitted, embarrassment causing him to become completely transfixed by the contents of his plate.

The two men picked at their breakfasts in silence, neither of them very hungry. Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was half past seven and far too early to make his escape. He started to become restless. Waiting was just so very _boring_, how on Earth did _normal _people survive the positively suffocating tedium of it all? Sherlock was abruptly snatched from the downward spiral of impatience and despair by movement. He looked up from his barely touched eggs to see John stand from the table, his own half-eaten breakfast in hand, and move towards the sink. Sherlock, deciding that was his cue to leave the table as well, stood and noiselessly drifted towards his violin.

Music was a good distraction when he was bored. Closing his eyes as he became absorbed in the music, he let his hands choose the melody. The song was lonely and hopeful all at once, filled with longing and passion Sherlock did not understand, but which somehow felt right. As the last notes drifted out the open window, he heard the sound of applause. He turned towards the sound and saw John, standing in the middle of the living room, with tears in his eyes, clapping as though he had been at a concert. The sight caused Sherlock's heart to beat faster and a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.

"That was beautiful," John said in a voice barely above a whisper. "What's it called?"

Sherlock shrugged as though he did not know. He did, in fact, have a name for it, but he refused to say it out loud. It was called _John_. The melody had already permanently ingrained itself in his mind, filling the air of John's room in his Mind Palace with its beautiful sound.

He shook his head to clear it. The room in which they were standing was becoming suffocating as John was still staring at him, his eyes filled with confusion, denial, and... something else. Sherlock glanced at the clock to distract himself from the man before him. Eight. One hour and thirty five minutes until he had to leave for his meeting with Dr. Whittson.

Sherlock finally moved, disrupting the stillness all around him. He grabbed his coat and scarf and left the flat without another word or glance at his friend. The air was chilly, a strong wind pushing him down the road. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he followed where it was guiding him, his thoughts on the melody and feelings it had evoked in both himself and John. He walked for what felt like minutes, but was in fact much longer.

When he finally took the time to notice his surroundings, he was back in front of the flat. A glance at his watch told him it was time to leave for Whittson's. He hailed a cab. As he climbed in, he told the cabbie, a balding man in his fifties who could stand to lose a few pounds, the address. As the cab began to move, he glanced back at the flat. John was standing at the window, watching the cab drive away.

Sherlock leaned back into the seat of the cab and stared out the window, watching London fly by. His hand fell upon a piece of paper on the seat next to him. He picked it up and looked at it. On it was written, "One day hunting expedition, to be led by visiting huntsman Colonel Sebastian Moran. Book your spot immediately as only 25 more members can be accepted!"

Sherlock pondered the flier. "Colonel Sebastian Moran," he murmured, deep in thought. _Could this be the Colonel I'm searching for?_ he wondered.

"Did ya say somthin', guv'nor?" the cabbie called back.

Sherlock was going to make a snide retort, probably involving the disintegrating state of the cabbie's marriage, but decided against it. The cabbie might be able to give him the information he sought about this Colonel. "Yes, and by the way, do you know who left this flier?" he inquired, holding up the aforementioned piece of paper. The cabbie glanced at it through the rear-view mirror.

"Yeah," he answered with a nod of his head, "Sebastian Moran, I think 'is name was. Nice chap. Gave me an extra ten quid to leave those fliers."

Sherlock decided that, to get the information he needed, it would be best to adopt a fake personality. One not quite as difficult to get along with as he normally was. "Ah, the Colonel himself," he said with a cheery tone filled with recognition. "Yes, wonderful chap. We met at a pub once and he paid off my entire tab. I'd like to return the favor, but I don't know where he's staying." Sherlock paused for a moment as though he was thinking. He actually had his entire speech planned out beforehand. "Hold on a sec, do you remember where he got off?"

The cabbie drove silently for a few minutes, trying to pull the information from his average brain. All of a sudden, his eyes lit up. "Bulgari Hotel, I think, guv. It's in Knightsbridge. Very nice place. I reckon posher than I'll ever see with me own eyes." The short burst of unseemly laughter that followed his last sentence almost made Sherlock wince, but he restrained himself. "I'll take you there, shall I?"

"Not right now," Sherlock announced. "I have another meeting to attend first, but thanks for the help." The brief 'thanks' was more of an afterthought than an actual exclamation of thankfulness.

"No problem," the accommodating cabbie said. There were a few minutes of relative silence in the cab where Sherlock examined the flier and the cabbie hummed 'God Save the Queen.' The cabbie was the one to break the silence. "We're 'ere, guv'nor," he announced.

Sherlock looked up from the flier in his hand, his gaze moving to the scene out the window. They were parked on the street in front of a cozy looking flat in Bloomsbury. It had grey-brown brick walls with white trim. The door was a dark wood with a few faded stone steps leading up to it accented by wrought iron railings. Sherlock paid the cabbie and exited the cab. He walked up the steps to the professor's flat. Before he could reach out to knock on the door, it opened, revealing Dr. Whittson.

He had not changed very much. He had thinning gray hair, round spectacles, and kind green eyes. He was heavier than Sherlock, though that is not exactly hard to be, without being morbidly obese. He almost always wore a smile. The only changes were he had put on a few more pounds and his hair was thinner and grayer. His eyes still sparkled with life and intelligence as they had when Sherlock had been his student.

"Good morning, my boy," Dr. Whittson greeted happily, his kind and caring smile causing one to appear on Sherlock's face as well. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home," he instructed while ushering his former pupil inside the flat. It was cozy as befits a person as kind as James Whittson. There were books strewn haphazardly on every surface, warm lighting, and pictures of the doctor's many adventures covering every inch of the walls.

"I have some tea ready," he told Sherlock as he led him into a living room that was much the same as the rest of the flat in its coziness. The differences were the oriental rug, fireplace crackling happily, two red leather sofas, an armchair of the same material, and tea set resting on the glass coffee table.

"Thanks," Sherlock said as he sat on the sofa opposite his former mentor. "No sugar as usual."

"Of course," the professor nodded as he poured the steaming liquid into two tea cups and handed one to Sherlock. After both men had taken a sip of their tea, Dr. Whittson spoke again with a more serious tone. "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?"

Sherlock took another sip of the warm, comforting beverage before answering. "As I was saying, I have a flatmate named John, around whom I recently have been unable to control my emotions." Dr. Whittson's eye brows shot up in surprise.

"Well, this is _very_ unexpected indeed. I can see why you would want to talk to someone," Dr. Whittson stated. "What have you been feeling around this John exactly?" he inquired before sipping at his tea once more.

"I can't describe it very well," Sherlock admitted, cursing this new-found inability to function entirely as himself, "but one happening that strikes me as particularly important a tingling sensation that I experienced after John touched my forearm."

Dr. Whittson's eyes lit up with understanding and a knowing smile formed on his lips. "Has your pulse raced when you look at him or talk to him?" he questioned while already relatively certain of what the answer would be.

Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment. "Yes, how did you know?" he demanded. Dr. Whittson raised a hand, signaling for patience.

"And have you been smiling for no particular reason when you're around him?" he asked the bewildered detective, his smile increasing in size.

"On occasion, yes," Sherlock revealed, his discomfort growing. He was not used to being the last to know something and, as he was rapidly discovering, he did not like it at all. "Now I feel you already know the answers to these questions, so would you please explain all of this to me?" he requested, agitation beginning to consume him.

Dr. Whittson decided to end his torment. "Sherlock my boy, I think you may fancy this John of yours," he informed the younger man.

Sherlock's eyes became the size of saucers and his jaw dropped. "What?" he sputtered once his vocal chords worked again. He hoped it was all a cruel joke, one which the older man would end immediately. The professor's smile simply grew.

"It's how I felt and behaved around my Jane," he explained, looking fondly at an old wedding photo on the mantle. His gaze returned to Sherlock. "You are exhibiting all of the signs."

Sherlock shook himself out of his befuddled state, since it was obvious the professor would not admit to it being a jest, and moved into the safer territory of denial. "But I'm a sociopath; I can't _fancy_ someone!" he asserted loudly.

"Well, obviously you can," the older man maintained. "I had always hoped that you would find someone."

"What am I supposed to do now, then?" Sherlock implored, giving up on denial. The professor was right, all of the symptoms were there. "I'm not only a sociopath, I'm a bloody detective. I can't have a _boyfriend_!" he claimed, uttering the word 'boyfriend' as if it were venomous.

"There are many detectives out there who have a partner and are still able to do their jobs," Dr. Whittson stated.

"But not _my_ job," Sherlock insisted.

"My boy, denying the truth will only make things more difficult," Dr. Whittson pointed out. "I think the first thing you need to do is find out if he feels the same for you. You may find that being with him will _help_ you with your job."

"How? By sacrificing himself?" Sherlock demanded. "I don't want John to become my literally _bloody_ shield!" His agitation being fed by his fear that John would be hurt trying to protect him.

Dr. Whittson had not given up on trying to reason with him. "Am I correct in assuming he already accompanies you on cases?" he asked with the calmness Sherlock was lacking.

"Yes, but suppose he also fancies me. He would throw himself into worse danger," Sherlock argued.

"If he does fancy you, then he would do so regardless of whether or not you're in a relationship," Dr. Whittson reasoned.

Sherlock saw his point, remembering how John had killed to save him the first day they met. "Perhaps," he conceded.

"Since you're so worried about this, he must be willing to take a bullet for someone he loves," Dr. Whittson observed. "Tell me, does he have much experience in life-threatening situations?"

"Yes, he was an army doctor. He's addicted to it, actually," Sherlock confessed.

"Then I fail to see why you're so worried," the professor announced. "Someone with military training would easily know how to stay alive in imminent danger."

"He's done alright so far," Sherlock acknowledged, "but he doesn't quite appreciate how dangerous England can be outside of war."

It was plain to see that Sherlock was searching for any possible reason to deny what he felt at that point. "Why do you think he will put himself in more danger if the two of you are romantically involved?" Dr. Whittson asked. By that point, both of them had entirely forgotten their tea, which had gotten cold while they were arguing, or more accurately while Sherlock was arguing and Dr. Whittson was stating facts.

"I don't think he'll really be that much different, but chances are I won't be able to do my part as well," Sherlock admitted.

"And why not?" Dr. Whittson asked curiously, tilting his head slightly to one side.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I won't be able to think as well if I let this emotion develop," he confessed.

Dr. Whittson stared at him in a way that made Sherlock feel as though he were a petulant child about to be scolded by his teacher. "That's not true and you know it," Dr. Whittson announced. "My boy, you will always be the most intelligent person around, even if you fall in love."

Sherlock's expression became more troubled, if that was even possible. "Honestly, I don't know it," he whispered.

The professor's serious expression softened, his eyes smiling even though his lips were not. "Well, there's only one way to find out," he proclaimed.

* * *

**My cell phone ringing jolted me out of my frenzy of writing. I ignored it, refusing to take my eyes off of the computer screen lest the story write itself if I looked away for even a second. When the persistent device rang again fifteen minutes later, I glanced at it with annoyance, wondering who would dare interrupt me when I was writing. I groaned when I saw that Tod had left me text messages. I had forgotten about our date. The first message said, "Chris, where are you? We were supposed to meet half an hour ago." The second said, "Don't bother coming. I'm going to assume that you're standing me up for your computer. I hope you two are very happy together."**

**I drew in a sharp breath and bit back tears. This was not the first time he tried to make me choose between him and my writing. I quickly began texting him telling him that I would be there, I had just gotten a bit distracted. I was in the middle of writing the word "sorry" when the sounds of a keyboard stopped me abruptly. I slowly looked at my computer, dreading what I would see. The keys were moving as though a ghost were typing. The story was _literally_ writing itself. My heart skipped a beat as I read the new words.**

* * *

A young woman with long black hair and pale blue eyes who looked to be in her early twenties was standing in front of 221b Baker Street. She looked up at the building while fidgeting nervously. "This can_not_ be real," she muttered to herself. "There is no way I'm actually _in_ my story!"

* * *

**I wanted to scream as I read the words. That was _me_. Gripping my cell phone tightly in one hand as though it were a lifeline, I reached for the keyboard. The moment my hand made contact with the smooth plastic, a blinding white light enveloped me and the room. When I opened my eyes, I was not in my study anymore.**

* * *

I looked around. I was standing exactly where the story had said I was. "This can_not_ be real. There is no way I'm actually _in_ my story!" I exclaimed, then paled, realizing I had said exactly what I had said in the story. I managed to calm myself before I began hyperventilating. _Cool it, Chris,_ I told myself. _You are _not _a damsel in distress, you are a strong, independent woman. You can handle this. _That helped somewhat, not very much, but at least I was no longer on the edge of hysteria. I remembered that Sherlock had said I would show up at the flat looking for my lipstick earlier in the story. I figured that doing so was probably my best chance of getting the hell out of there.

I put my cell phone, which I had still been holding tightly, in my back pocket. With the speed of a snail, I crept up to the building in front of me. When I reached the door, I knocked timidly. I heard something shuffling behind the door. "Who is it?" a voice that I could only assume was John Watson called._  
_

"M-my n-name's Christine," I stuttered. I took a few deep breaths to pull myself together, then continued. "I met Sherlock yesterday at the crime scene. I think he has my lipstick?" I answered uncertainly. The door opened. There he was. A small smile found its way to my face. We were the same height. _He really is short._

John looked me over. "Sherlock didn't tell me you were American," he said. "Or gorgeous."

I blushed, realizing I was wearing the tight black jeans and low-cut top I had selected for my date. Thankfully, I was wearing a jacket. It was freezing. "I have a boyfriend," I explained quickly, before he could hit on me some more. It was his turn to blush. "Can I come in?"

"Of course, where are my manners," he mumbled, stepping aside to let me enter. The flat was just as messy as I had imagined. "Sorry for the mess, Sherlock's an unstoppable force of nature." I laughed. John led me to the living room and motioned to one of the couches. "If you don't mind my asking, what were you doing at a crime scene?"

I searched my mind for an answer he would believe. "I'm a reporter," I told him. "Lestrade let me see the crime scene for a story I was writing." He nodded, accepting the lie. I let out a small sigh of relief. We sat in an awkward silence for a minute.

"Sherlock will probably be back soon," John said, breaking the silence. I nodded. Just that moment, we heard the sound of footsteps. The door opened and in stepped Sherlock Holmes. _The_ Sherlock Holmes with his scarf, coat, curly hair, and those cheekbones of his. When he had finished hanging his scarf and coat on a peg on the wall, he turned his gaze on me and smiled mischievously.

"Ah, Christine," he greeted, giving me a nod while looking me over. I could practically _see_ the gears in his head turn as he deduced every last detail of my life. I just prayed he wouldn't figure out about me being the writer. That would probably mess up some cosmic balance or something. "I suppose you would have liked to have this for your date." He held up my lipstick tube as his grin turned into a smirk. "Perhaps next time." Of course he knew that Tod had stood me up. Sherlock did not disappoint.

The entire time Sherlock was talking to me, John was staring at him. "Sherlock, it's nice to see you again," I said, using all of my meager acting abilities to make my voice sound as though running into _Sherlock_ _Holmes _was normal and not every fangirl's dream. John's gaze flickered to me quizzically when I said the word nice. I stood up from the sofa and brushed off imaginary dust as something to occupy my hands, fully aware that John was staring at me. "Thank you for rescuing my lipstick. I'm not even going to ask how you knew I missed my date."

As Sherlock walked over towards me and John, who was also standing, his attention once again captured by Sherlock, he tripped over a very tall and precariously stacked pile of books that, oddly enough, had a pitcher of water placed on top of it. The water from the pitcher splashed all over the front of my blouse. "I'm _terribly_ sorry," Sherlock said with very obviously false concern and dismay. Something in his tone led me to believe that he had spilled the water on me on purpose, though what his reasoning could be, I had no idea. "As I'm sure you know, I'm not normally this clumsy. Why don't you have some tea while that dries?" As he offered the tea, he was already halfway to the kitchen, not leaving much of a choice had I not wanted any tea. I did, however, want tea, so I didn't mind.

As he was walking away, John shut his mouth, which had previously been hanging open in shock, and called out to his flatmate. "Sherlock, what on Earth has gotten into you?" he scolded. Sherlock did not reply, as John and I both knew would happen. John sighed and glanced at me before hurrying away in the direction of the bathroom. When he returned, he was carrying a green and white striped towel with hearts on it, which he promptly handed to me once he had reached my side. "I'm terribly sorry," he apologized to me as I wiped at my wet blouse with the proffered towel.

I gave him my most reassuring smile. "It's quite alright," I told him. "No need to apologize."

He did not look appeased. Evidently, my reassuring smile could use some work. "He's not normally like this," he said. I raised an eyebrow, wordlessly informing him that I was well enough acquainted with Sherlock to know that was false. John smiled a tiny bit. "Sorry, that was a lie. He's always like this. But, what can you do," he shrugged. "He's Sherlock." The way he said Sherlock's name, as though that one word was the most precious thing in the entire universe, showed very clearly how 'not gay' he truly was. I kept the thought hidden. Even though I was the author and could technically do whatever I wanted with the story, I knew that I had to let John come to terms with his feelings on his own.

"I understand," I told him, returning from my thoughts. "My boyfriend is," I stopped, a lump forming in my throat as I remembered the events that transpired immediately before I was somehow transported to Baker Street. "_was_ always the same way. Blissfully unaware of how his words and actions affect others." I battled the urge to cry, but I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Would I even be able to salvage our relationship when I returned? Tod may be a jerk at times, but I still loved him.

John noticed my inner struggle and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "What happened?" he inquired in a voice filled with compassion and concern. I was not sure if I would be able to answer without crying. Luckily, Sherlock saved me from having to reply.

"Isn't it obvious, John?" he inquired, poking his head out of the kitchen to look at us, well, John really. The moment he spoke, he had all of John's attention, even though his hand remained on my shoulder. "Her boyfriend left her for standing him up." John's eyes widened and he sneaked a glance at me. Sherlock's piercing and soul-reading gaze turned to me as well. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, as though he knew a secret that no one else knew, and he was reveling in it. I was not particularly fond of that glint. "Apparently he doesn't like writing," he explained, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. My eyes widened in surprise and my heart nearly stopped beating, only to start beating at a frantic pace. How did he know? How _could _he know? I felt panicked until I remembered the lie I had told John about being a reporter. He must know about that. Yes, _that_ must be to what he was referring. My heart rate returned to normal as I visibly relaxed. I prayed silently that my panic had looked at least somewhat like distress caused by the upsetting memories Sherlock's deductions had triggered.

John's voice plucked me from the confines of the emotional hurricane that was my mind. "I'm so sorry!" he said, wiping away I tear I was not aware that I had shed. I could hear Sherlock's teeth grind together at the intimate gesture, but John did not seem to have noticed.

"I-it's ok-kay," I managed to mutter, wiping away more tears on my own. "I sh-should have seen it c-coming. He doesn't like that I focus so much on my writing. He thinks it's a waste of time."

John looked surprised, his mouth hanging open. "I don't think I like him very much," he commented when he regained his composure. I smiled briefly at his behavior. He was acting the way an older brother would. If it were possible, I knew that John and I would have been great friends, but I would not be able to contact him when I returned from the story. I wished that there was a way, but knew that would be impossible.

"Tea's ready," Sherlock informed us, intentionally breaking the moment. I could only imagine what John's girlfriends would be forced to suffer through if this was the way Sherlock behaved when John was talking to a person of the opposite sex he was _not_ involved with. Sherlock walked out of the kitchen holding a tea set and placed it on a coffee table in the living room. "You really shouldn't make a habit of dropping your personal belongings," he advised me while pointing to a spot on the floor. My gaze inevitably followed where he pointed and fell upon my cell phone.

I quickly snatched it from the floor and inspected it for any cracks or scratches. As I examined it I mumbled, more to myself than my companions, "Normally it doesn't fall out of these pants... They're too tight..."

"They definitely look too tight," John agreed. I blushed and looked at him, but he was not looking at my pants as I had suspected, he was looking at Sherlock in a way that indicated he had only said that to make Sherlock jealous, whether or not by a conscious decision. Sherlock was glaring at me with his jaw clenched tightly. From the way he was glaring at me, you would think I had just run over his puppy. John's endeavor to make him jealous was successful.

"Well, Christine, perhaps it's time for you to go," Sherlock growled through his clenched teeth. He was being very territorial, which was not exactly surprising given what he had learned earlier in the day.

I suppressed a grin as I looked between the two men. John looked mortified at his flatmate's behavior, yet slightly pleased nonetheless. Sherlock still looked as though I was trespassing by remaining there a moment longer. My valiant struggle gave way and I grinned knowingly. "I would not want to overstay my welcome," I said. "Good bye Sherlock, John." That being said, I placed the towel I had still been holding on the coffee table, turned, and exited the flat, closing the door softly behind me. The second the door closed, the same blinding white light from earlier surrounded me. The next thing I knew, I was back in my study.

* * *

**I examined the room. Everything was just the way I had left it. I started to think that the entire experience had been no more than a daydream. I felt relieved, but also disappointed. It had all felt so _real_. At the exact moment I had convinced myself that it was merely a byproduct of my overactive imagination, my gaze landed on my computer. Not only was the paragraph I had read just before arriving on Baker Street still written, but immediately following it was a first person narration of my every thought while I was there. I read it all over carefully. The chapter did not feel quite finished yet. There needed to be a proper conclusion. I boldly placed my hands on the keys and began to type, allowing instinct to guide me.  
**

* * *

The two men watched as the door to the flat silently shut, a soft click being the only noise it made. After a few moments where both were lost in their own thoughts, John turned to face Sherlock, his expression only slightly more collected than had his jaw been on the floor. Despite how long he had lived with the man, Sherlock's reaction to his mild flirting shocked him. He had expected annoyance, but not _anger._ "What the hell did you do _that_ for?" he demanded of his silent companion.

Sherlock, who had been staring at John out of the corner of his eye since the moment the door clicked into place, turned to look him directly in the eye. Once he was absolutely certain that his callous and indifferent mask was in place and successfully hiding his true motive, Sherlock responded. "I didn't want you to attempt to end up with another date," he explained, just enough detachment coloring his tone so that he did not sound like a jealous schoolgirl. "It gets in the way of our work."

John opened and closed his mouth like a fish. His eyebrows were furrowed as though there was something he desperately wanted to say, but his better judgement cautioned him against it. With a sigh of defeat, he surrendered to his better judgement and changed the subject. "So," he began, saying the word slowly as if it were foreign to him, "how was your meeting with Dr. Wilson?"

"It went fine," Sherlock shrugged, concealing how his heart beat faster when he thought of the professor's parting words to him, "though his name is Dr. Whittson."

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously while his hands fidgeted behind his back. This peculiar feeling of nervousness or shyness that overcame him around Sherlock was new and uncomfortable. He had only felt that way once in school and that was with a girl he fancied. He roughly shoved the thought away. That memory had no bearing whatsoever on his predicament with Sherlock, since he was _not gay_. "Good. Brilliant," he mumbled. The tension between the pair was overwhelming and John was drowning in it.

They had been standing, stealing glances at one another when the other was not looking for five minutes when Sherlock decided to put an end to it. "Oh, and by the way, could you pick up a rifle tomorrow?" he asked as he ushered his flatmate into the living room. John practically fell over at the word 'rifle'.

"A rifle?" he sputtered, plopping ungracefully into his chair. Sherlock sat in his own chair with much more finesse. "Sherlock, why do you need a rifle?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed at having to explain _every last detail_, even though he was always secretly pleased when John asked him questions. Especially when he was asking about his deductions, but this was nice too. "I may have found our colonel," he explained. When John's brows furrowed in confusion, he decided to relinquish more of the details. "He's leading a hunting expedition. I'm not sure yet, but this is the best way to find out."

John looked him over, debating whether or not giving Sherlock a rifle was a wise and safe decision. "Do you even know how to shoot a rifle?" he inquired.

"I've never done it before, but yes," Sherlock answered. John's eyebrows shot up, looking like they were trying to flee his face.

"How can you know how to shoot a rifle if you've never done so before?" John demanded, becoming more and more convinced that giving Sherlock Holmes a rifle was a _very bad_ idea.

"I've done research," he disclosed. "It's all on my website. You'd really benefit from reading it." John bit back a scoff.

"Fine," John conceded. "I'll get you a rifle," He paused for a moment, biting on his lower lip in an uncertain manner that briefly relocated Sherlock's attention to his lips, "but promise me you won't kill yourself?"

Sherlock smiled, inwardly almost giddy that John was so worried about his safety. "Don't be silly, John," he chided playfully, "why would I kill myself?"


	4. Urgent Assistance Required

**This is not an actual update, but please read because I really need your help.**

**Hi guys, Christine Éponine here. I need some help. So as you know, in chapter three, Sherlock gets John to agree to purchase a rifle for him. That's all fine and dandy, but I'm working on chapter four and I have no idea how to purchase a rifle, when and how you physically acquire said rifle, or anything else related to the purchasing of firearms. I could really use your help. If anyone knows what to do, please PM me as soon as you can. If you help, you will get a special shout out in the author's note for chapter four! Thank you so much for reading this and thank you even more if you help!**

**Love you all,**

**Christine Éponine**


	5. EXTREMELY Important author's note

**Hi guys. Sorry to be writing this. I really hate giving false hope, but it must be done. School starts in two weeks and I still have to write at least one essay, memorize the presidents of the United States in order, and be able to identify all of the states on a map, so I may not be able to update before school starts. I am working on chapters for both ****Flowers of Rain**** and ****Defying the Laws of Fiction**** and I already wrote a ton of chapters for ****The Truth Behind the Mask**** which I have not yet uploaded. Best case scenario is that I'll be able to update them, but it's very likely that I won't. **

**Also, I am an idiot because I am going to be taking 5 AP or honors classes this coming year. My only non AP or honors class is art, which should be fun. I'm not quite sure because I don't really like the idea of someone telling me how to draw for a whole year. I am going to be having a hell of a lot of homework this coming year, so I have absolutely no clue when I'll be able to update. **

**Despite the very likely chance that I will only be able to update on long weekends or school holidays, PLEASE don't give up on me or my stories. Your reviews and messages (iamthedaisyqueen gets a special shout out here, because that was seriously the nicest and most wonderful message I have ever gotten! Thanks so much for that!) are the only things that keep me from complete insanity and hyperventilation, because this school year seriously terrifies me. The only good things are seeing my friends again and my AWESOME backpack that I ordered on amazon yesterday.**

**Do you see why I'm so scared of the work load? My ADD is a major problem. **

**I have one last thing to say, I've started making wire-wrapped jewelry and have gotten quite good at it. (Sorry for the ego there, but it's true.) If you want to see pictures or possibly buy one, please message me. Okay, ad over.**

**I love you all so very much for your kindness and appreciation of my writing. **

**~Christine Éponine**


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